i will constantly make bad art. i whisper to myself as i start to feel bad about what i have created. it is a good reminder. i don’t always have to force myself to make something worthwhile every time i decide to sit down and get creative. a friend once told me to keep writing poetry even when nobody will read it. keep making art even when it’s crap. i will constantly make bad art. and then i will make good ones.
i live in a fast paced world. everything is only moving forward. no rewinds, no stops, no pauses. this tricked me into thinking that i have to be out there plotting my story, making it happen, doing things as soon as possible because really when is a better time to start other than right now. but reader, today i found myself in between little parenthesis. being put on hold. as i patiently wait for my story to unfold at the right time and the right place at the right pace.
i can’t i am terrified.
not now maybe soon.
that’s right just grow.
alright here i go.
just keep growing.
who are you? no, i mean like, who are you when the universe isn’t looking? when everyone is looking the other way. when the curtains are closed and you’re alone in your bedroom, alone with your thoughts. or when no one hears the words you say or the songs you sing. who are you when you’re sober? who are you when you’re not? when you’re genuinely happy. or exceedingly hurt. who are you when you wake up in the morning? or when you go to sleep at night? what kind of dreams do you dream? or nightmares do you fear? who are you really? no, I mean like, who are you when you’re not trying to be yourself?
it’s strange how foreign yet so familiar the woods are. how i feel lost yet calm out in the wilderness. how the rough earth beneath my feet feels like carpet. how the rustling of leaves remind me of me and my sister’s seemingly endless whispering when we couldn’t easily fall asleep at night. how i feel safe sleeping under a million stars. how the waves feel like satin sheets against my skin. how the wind is harsh but gentle like a kiss. and how the moon shines dimly like an old night light. it leaves an empty longing feeling in my stomach. making me miss home so badly.
i am home. 🙂
i am not art. i don’t have galaxies in my mind and diamonds in my eyes. my tears don’t resemble the stars in the sky. i don’t watch sunsets die and my voice isn’t a symphony. my skin is nothing like satin and i’m not sad and beautiful enough to become poetry.
and sometimes i wish i was. i wish i could be that person you’d write poems about. i wish i could be so broken that artists would die to paint all my flaws on a blank canvas and people would cry at the sight of my skin. but i guess i’d rather just be plain and dull, than be tragically beautiful.
Something has been bothering me for the past three months. It’s that I can’t think of anything to write. Usually I write about something that interests me. But these past few months have been nothing but blank sheets. I’ve been lying on my back waiting for inspiration to come leaking out of the cracks on the wall or the ones on my palms. I’ve attempted to write but words keep getting tangled up in the paper lines. For the first time in a long while, I can’t think of anything to write. Or find any reason to.
I would blame writer’s block but really it was only because I wasn’t passionate enough. I really don’t have any good excuse other than I was unmotivated and lazy. I tried though. For countless time I’ve attempted to write. I tried to look for things to write about in the places that I went and the people that I’ve met and even haven’t. But I didn’t exactly know what I wanted to find. I tried to write about the cracks on the wall. Not very interesting. I tried writing about politics. Not exactly my thing. I tried to write about coffee. I prefer drinking it really. And now I regret hating my 2 am thoughts cause my coffee has gone cold and I hate the irony of writing about not knowing what to write.